Fire of the Wolf
by IAmToast24
Summary: Pretty much what I wish would happen in the final season. Don't know if I'll finish before the season premieres. Lots of Daenarys/Jon Snow and Arya/Gendry.
1. Cold as Fire

Daenerys wakes up to the sound of waves and the feeling of a warm body tangled with her own. It takes her only a moment to remember where she is and who she's with. _Jon_. She gazes up at the northern king, his sleeping face calm and peaceful, and silently wishes they could stay like this forever. Ever since that first night, things between them have been gloriously intimate. Each evening, after the rest of the ship has gone to sleep, Jon comes to her cabin. They make love and kiss and talk until they're both too tired to continue. In the morning, they wake up in each other's arms and do it all over again.

Sometimes, when the light of day is just breaking through the ocean mist like it is right now, she can imagine a life in which she and Jon are safe, a world in which the Night King is not fast approaching everyone they hold dear and Cersei Lannister is not trying to deceive them into getting themselves killed. There is no more fighting, no more feuds between the Great Houses. Only happiness and peace. But she knows it is an impossible world, a fruitless dream, even as she dreams it.

While he sleeps, Daenerys traces Jon's scars, remembering the story of their origin from the previous night. It took the king a while to open up about them, but she's glad that he did. She understands why he does not wear them proudly as many other men would. The scars remind him of betrayal; they remind him of darkness and pain. He died, and a part of him will always be cold. He told her this as he ran his fingers lightly through her hair, his voice dripping with sorrow and anger.

Her own anger flared at his story, at the thought of someone, anyone, hurting Jon, killing him. _No one will ever hurt him again_ , she had thought. _Not_ my _Jon_. Her rage surprised her, though it shouldn't have. Her heart had belonged to him even before she had begun to think of him as _her_ Jon. It was all over her, had been ever since that first meeting at Dragonstone: the longing stares they had shared, her breath catching in her throat each time he entered a room, the telltale cracking of her heart when she had believed him dead. Now, she cannot imagine waking up without him beside her, and the thought of her attachment to him is as scary as it is thrilling.

"My Queen," Jon mumbles, his voice groggy from sleep. She smiles up at him, feeling his hardened form against her stomach. Her dream comes back to her, the feeling of contented happiness lingering in her mind as his head bends down towards her.

"My King," she responds, his lips brushing hers gently. She allows the dream to remain in her mind a bit longer, kissing a trail up his torso. He moans, running his calloused hands down the length of her. His touch makes her whole body come to life, and her lips are on his before she allows herself to say everything that she feels for him. She feeds off of his breath, off of the eagerness of his lips. Bringing her knee up to his side, she moves her kisses down his neck, causing him to tighten his grip on her back. They are so close that they could be one person.

Just as Daenerys is about to bring her other leg up, Jon rolls them over so that he is on top, kissing her all the while. She laughs against his mouth, and feels his lips form a smile. It's strange how quickly they have become this comfortable with one another. He feels tied to her somehow, as if they fit together perfectly. There is a certain familiarity to him, though he couldn't be further from her previous lovers. Letting her hands roam down his body, Daenerys allows Jon to position himself above her. The colors of sunrise over the sea flash behind her eyelids, but she barely notices. All that matters is this.

"Jon. My Jon," she sighs into his mouth, lost in the feel of him rubbing up against her. But then he stills, and she opens her eyes to see him staring at her with that same sense of wonder she has only seen once before, the first night they spent together. That night, he had pulled back suddenly, and, for a moment, she had been afraid that he was having second thoughts, but that wasn't it. Jon had cradled her head and gazed at her like she was the most precious thing in this world. His eyes hold the same expression now, one of awe and disbelief. She looks up at him questioningly.

"Your Jon?" She knows what he's asking. Of course she has called him her _king_ before, but this is a different matter entirely. He wants to know that he is more than a political alliance, more than just a convenient lover.

"Yes," Daenerys tells him, stroking the side of his face reverently, wondering how he could possibly not know how much he means to her. "You are mine, Jon Snow."

He studies her for a moment before saying, "And you are mine, Daenerys Targaryen." Her heart swells, and, for a moment, she wants to say more, wants to tell him that she loves him, that she never thought it possible for her heart to be this full, that he is the embodiment of every dream she has ever had and every wish she has yet to make. But this is not her dream world; there are so many obstacles in their way, so many problems that need fixing. This small confession will have to do for now.

Jon moves against her with even more passion than before, his body rocking along with the boat. His confession tastes sweet on his lips, and Daenerys can't help but feel that her own words have been sealed into her skin, the love she feels for him radiating from the deepest parts of her bones. As he kisses her, Jon expertly slides her body up, and, with one deft move, he is inside of her. Their cries of pleasure come simultaneously as their hips move in sync. Daenerys remembers how she had thought their first night together had been a fluke: surely his touch could not light a fire within her every time he brushed his fingers against her breast; surely the feeling of him inside of her could not completely undo her each and every night. But she had been wrong.

So gloriously wrong.

* * *

Jon tries not to hope for more than this. He should be good at it since he's been expecting nothing his whole life. With almost anything else, he can just be glad to have what he's been given, grateful that a bastard like him could be given anything at all. But with Daenerys, he wants everything.

He wants to give her the world, though it is not his to give. He wants to demand that she have everything she desires, but he cannot do such without revealing far too much. He has even caught himself wanting things he never wanted before, foolish things like marriage and children, both of which are impossible for more reasons than he can count. He desires them all the same, his heart refusing to acknowledge the logic of his mind.

"How long until we reach Winterfell?" he hears Dany ask from across the room. She has gotten up to look out of the porthole for her dragons, probably wishing that she could be riding them. Jon watches as she turns her head to look at him lying on the bed, her eyes clouded with eagerness and concern. He wishes that he could tell her that there's nothing to worry about, wishes he could find a way to smooth the crease traveling across her pale forehead. But he knows it would all be falsehoods, and Jon Snow is not a liar.

"We should reach shore by nightfall, and Winterfell isn't more than a few days trek on the King's Road from there." Dany glances outside once more before turning towards him fully. She is a vision surrounded by the light of sunrise, her thin robe hanging from her delicate skin like crystals from expensive jewelry. Her hair is a silver halo, braids coming undone like leaves falling from trees in autumn. She returns to the bed, sitting comfortably on Jon's right side and taking his hand in hers.

"Have you heard anything else from Sansa?" Dany asks him, and he smiles at the fond manner in which she speaks his sister's name. Jon knows that she has never truly had a family, not in the way that he has one. One night, he asked her about her brother Viserys, the one who had survived with her all those years in exile. So she had told him. She had explained that her brother had sold her to her husband, Drogo, for the Dothraki army, that he had been awful and foolish and cruel, and that he had died a painful death at the hands of her husband as she watched on.

But she didn't stop there. She admitted to him that she has always wondered about her mother, the woman who brought her into this world. She told him that she wishes to have known her eldest brother, Rhaegar, because she heard from one of her most trusted advisors that he was a kind and noble man. She explained how she freed a slave translator who would later become more like family to her than the many faceless names of corpses with whom she shares blood. She made her own family, gave life to three dragons and a whole nation of slaves, because her real family failed and abandoned her. After hearing this, Jon cursed his younger self for brooding about his own familial misfortunes.

"Not since she sent the raven about Littlefinger's execution," Jon responds, hoping that she cannot sense the note of worry in his voice.

"Yes," Dany responds, smiling. "Your sisters sound wonderful." He knows that she is eager to meet them, and Jon is hopeful that he can convince them to understand why he bent the knee to this Targaryen queen.

"Well, I haven't seen Arya in years," Jon says, sitting up and brushing a stray hair from Dany's face. "Sansa hasn't mentioned her other than to say that she was the one to carry out the execution."

"And you're worried she's changed into someone you won't recognize," Dany suggests, echoing the thoughts that have been running around in his mind since he received the scroll. He can still so clearly picture his little sister running around the grounds of Winterfell, getting into all sorts of trouble. She was so young, so innocent. "You're afraid that the world has twisted her into something horrible, and you weren't there to protect her." Dany rubs her thumb against his skin where their hands intertwine.

"When we were younger, Arya was the only one in the family that never treated me like an outsider. All of my siblings, spare Sansa when she was feeling especially bratty, often regarded me kindly, but like I was a cousin or a family friend, not that they loved me any less or treated me poorly. I think they feared upsetting their mother more than anything, especially Robb." Jon breathes deeply, thinking back to his childhood with his family. What he wouldn't give to go back and stop himself from taking it for granted. "But Arya...Arya always chose me over anyone else. I suppose it was in her nature, going against the grain. Everyone told her that girls shouldn't learn to fight, so she did. Everyone told her that I wasn't really her brother, so she loved me more fiercely than anyone else." Jon couldn't help but notice Dany's smile at that.

"No matter how much the world has changed her, she will always be your sister, Jon," she assures him. "And don't forget that you have changed, too." He just nods, knowing that it's true. Dany reaches a hand up to cradle his face, and he leans into her touch. "She is alive. That's what matters." And just like that, his fear evaporates. He doesn't understand how she does it, but Dany always knows how to make sense of his fears. He kisses her softly, feeling the tender skin of her lips against his own.

"You should really go back to your room," Dany whispers, not at all sounding like she wants him to leave. He shakes his head as he brushes his lips against her jaw. Just as he's reaching to untie her robe, there is a knock at the door.

"I've come to dress you, Your Grace." Missandei's muffled voice causes Dany to pull back. Jon sighs as they rest their foreheads together. "Tyrion is requesting a meeting with you, my Queen." There is a pause before she continues. "And you, Lord Snow."

* * *

Tyrion has grown tired of drinking on the high seas. It reminds him too much of his time in a crate on the way to Essos, a particularly dark period of his life of which he would rather not be reminded. So here he stands, more sober than he would like to be, freezing his ass off on the deck of the ship. The clouds hover on the surface of the sea, masking the ship's approach of Winterfell. Every few minutes he'll catch a glimpse of one of Daenerys's dragons or hear their roars. He wonders if others can hear them, too. Perhaps there is a young boy lost on land somewhere, listening to the echoes of the dragons and beginning to believe in something extraordinary and impossible. He smiles at the thought of it.

"Tyrion," he hears Daenerys call from behind him, snapping him out of his thoughts. He turns to find his Queen standing in front of him, the King of the North alongside her. He has to admit, they make a striking couple. Her pale, Targaryen features compliment his dark, northern ones perfectly. They are both wearing northern attire, but the flush of their cheeks indicates that neither of them feel the cold. They have been wrapped up in each other far too long to notice it.

"You requested to meet with us," Jon Snow says, his tone formal but not unkind. Though Jon attempts to keep his voice neutral, Tyrion hears the slight tenderness with which he says the word "us" in reference to himself and Daenerys. This is going to be more uncomfortable than he previously imagined.

"Yes," he starts, taking a seat and gesturing for them to do the same. "Well, with our arrival in Winterfell growing closer, I thought we might discuss some specifics about...the portrayal of our alliance." They look at each other and then back at Tyrion.

"Alright," Daenerys says, motioning for him to continue. Tyrion clears his throat.

"Well, this alliance is quite fragile, as I'm sure you both know." They nod. "The northern lords are a loyal bunch, I've heard, but they are also tired of southern rulers. They named you, Jon Snow, as their King because of this. Now, you have bent the knee to our Queen, which could present a problem if illustrated in the wrong light."

"Aye," Jon agrees. "They'll take some convincing, but once I tell them about Dany-"

"I have no doubt that you will speak high praises of our Queen," Tyrion interrupts, noticing the use of Daenerys's nickname. "That's actually what I'm worried about."

"Do you _not_ want him to vouch for me with his people?" Daenerys asks in a tone that implies that she hopes he's joking.

"That's not what I'm saying."

"What are you saying, then?" Daenerys asks. He hears a hint of wariness in her voice that leads him to believe she's already guessed what this is about.

"We must be careful with how they perceive your...working relationship." At this, Tyrion notices Jon tense up.

"Tyrion…" Jon warns.

"Look, it is none of my concern what either of you do with your nights, and if it were possible, a marriage alliance between the two of you would be ideal, but we have higher concerns when it comes to the northern lords."

"Tyrion, we've been as discreet as possible with this, and it's not as if we were planning on announcing our...intimacy to the lords as soon as we got to Winterfell," Daenerys says. "Do you think us fools?"

"No, Your Grace," Tyrion admits. "Forgive me, I meant no offence. But being discreet may not be enough. If they sense that your feelings for each other go beyond a military alliance or mutual respect, they may shift their allegiance."

"My people are loyal-" Jon begins, but Tyrion doesn't let him finish.

"That may be true, but they also remember the losses they suffered when they were loyal to your brother Robb, the last King of the North."

"What does Robb have to do with this?" Jonn asks, sounding irritated. Tyrion sighs.

"Many of the northern lords believe that Robb Stark's marriage to a foreign woman was the turning point in the war. They still hold animosity towards outsiders, and it will be hard enough to get them to accept Daenerys as Queen. If they think that your choice was in any way influenced by desire or emotions and not strategy, they will feel like you are betraying the North." Tyrion pauses, hoping to catch some change in either of their expressions, but nothing happens. "We _cannot_ afford to lose the northern lords."

They gaze at each other, and Tyrion is struck by how young they are. It's easy to forget, since they are both such powerful leaders. The unfortunate hands both of them have been dealt by life have hardened them in different ways, made them become wise and formidable without allowing them time to be young and free. They are just barely adults. At their age, Tyrion can't even remember what, or who, he was doing. Forces have continually conspired to harm them. Yet the same forces of their lives, whether it be destiny or hardship, have brought them here, to each other. After all they have suffered, he wishes that they could have that small happiness. He just doesn't know how it could be possible.

"You're wrong. We won't lose them," Jon says, reaching over and placing his hand on Daenerys's. "We just have to get them to see you for the Queen you are." He turns his gaze to Tyrion, his eyes determined. "I will not ever speak ill of Robb. My brother was an honorable and good man. But he let his love for a titleless foreign woman cloud his judgement, and he paid for it with his life, along with the lives of his mother, wife, and unborn child. The northern lords will surely see that this alliance is nothing like that. For one, Daenerys is not a random woman; she is a Queen with an army to aid us in our fight. Also, I am breaking no marriage agreement by fraternizing with her. Any relationship between us, whether it be platonic or romantic, can only be beneficial to both of our people."

"But if they think your decision is because of your fondness for the Queen-" Tyrion starts, but Jon cuts him off.

"It wasn't," he says, locking his eyes with Tyrion. "My feelings for Dany have nothing to do with it. She's a great leader, she's an important ally, and as soon as I can convince the northern lords that she isn't here to conquer us, they'll begin to see it, too."

"We understand the danger, Tyrion," Daenerys tells him. "But what is between us only strengthens the bond between our people, and, as far as they know, we're only allies."

"Are you sure that-" Tyrion begins to ask, but his Queen stops him.

"Tyrion, you are my Hand as well as my friend," she says, "but you cannot manage the affairs of my heart anymore than I can." She reaches over to cover his hand with her own. "Thank you for your counsel on this matter, but Jon and I can handle it." She gazes over at the King of the North, causing him to flush a bright red.

Tyrion looks between them, understanding the choice each of them has made. He should have expected it, really. These are the two fiercest, most loyal people he knows; of course they would choose to stand by one another. Maybe it's the cynic in him that can't help but feel that this can only in in heartbreak. Or maybe it's his own experience with love.

Still, as he watches them make their way to the bow of the ship, he catches a glimpse of what they could be, if the world would permit it: two young, beautiful monarchs raising a nation together from the broken pieces of the Seven Kingdoms. He can imagine a future in which they have defeated the Night King and taken back the nation from his evil sister. But he strikes it down as soon as the thought enters his mind; it has been Tyrion's experience that the world does not allow such happiness to those who are so ready and willing to claim it. It seems that fate always has a cruel end in store.

And as cruel as the world or fate can be, his sister is worse.


	2. The Flames of Winterfell

_It's just Jon,_ Arya keeps reminding herself as she paces in her chambers. But her efforts are futile. The Jon of her childhood may as well be dead, especially considering that he actually died. That is, if Sansa's accounts of his past are to be trusted. But whether he died or not, the Jon she knew is gone. This Jon is a King, _the_ King of the North. He's no longer just the bastard of Winterfell, sneaking into her chambers at night to teach her how to fight. He'll be scarred, inside and out.

But so is Arya. She may not have died, but she has come close more times than she can count. And even though they've both grown separately, will they truly be so different that their previously easy relationship will become strained? Maybe Jon will think her tactics to be dishonorable, and she can't think of anything worse to the Jon she knew than the loss of honor.

This sense of dread follows her even as the horn sounds announcing the King's arrival. She walks outside, joining Sansa and Bran at the entrance to Winterfell. Unwelcome, the memory of their family lined up to greet King Robert comes back to her. It was a lovely summer day, and Arya had been in awe of the Knights in their armor, annoyed when she had been scolded and told to act like a lady. Today is nothing like that day. Her family is far too small, their three forms silhouetted in the fading light of day. The air is brisk and cold, small snowflakes cutting through the fog of their breaths.

The grey walls of Winterfell stand tall before her family, acting as the only barrier between the fulfillment of their reunion. Dark hues paint the sky with bold strokes, only small slits of sunlight filtering through the dense gates of their home open slowly, a large party of riders and a carriage coming through. Arya searches for Jon, assuming that he will be riding at the front. She begins to get anxious when she doesn't see him.

"He'll be in the carriage," Sansa whispers to her, noticing her worry. Arya scrunches her eyebrows, but says nothing. Sansa knows a lot more about these things than she does. In the weeks since Little Finger's execution, the sisters have grown close. Arya has come to understand her sister's struggles as Sansa has come to know hers. It's not as if they always like each other, but Arya has to admit she admires her sister more than she thought possible. Sometimes, she looks at Sansa and sees her mother. It should be saddenning, but she finds it a comfort.

As the party settles into the clearing, the door to the carriage opens. Out of it first comes a dirty blond dwarf, his face solemn. _Tyrion Lannister_. Arya glances at her sister, wondering if the man's presence will have an adverse effect on her. But Sansa only smiles politely as he makes his way towards them. Then comes a pretty, tan-skinned woman, her chocolate-colored hair standing on end. Arya can tell right away that she is from Essos. She smiles warmly, following Tyrion to greet the Stark family. Tyrion stands in front of Sansa and bows his head as another foot steps out of the carriage. This time, it's Jon.

Arya takes in the sight of her brother, trying to change the mental image seared into her mind from so long ago. Back then they were two innocent kids. Jon used to let his curly Stark hair grow out freely, always keeping his face clean shaven. Now, Arya notices the facial hair covering his features, the stubble moving with the contemplative frown on his face. At least that has remained unchanged. His hair is tied back, his stature imposing and strong. As he steps down from the carriage, Arya notes the purposeful power of his movements. He carries himself well. She shouldn't be surprised by such a silly, simple thing, but the old Jon was always slouching, always acting as if the weight of other people's opinions were pulling him down. Now, he walks with the confidence of a king.

Jon looks over at Sansa, catching sight of her bright hair. His eyes then go to Bran, his mouth forming a hopeful smile. Then, as Arya holds her breath, his eyes find her own. His smile falters, a look of confusion masking his expression. Arya's gut drops, every doubt she's ever had about their reunion rushing back to her. She can feel the crushing weight of his disappointment falling upon her. But then, his expression changes. Jon's eyebrows drop inward, and his eyes melt as a tentative smile reforms. He looks at her with such fondness and recognition that she feels her hardened heart beat furiously.

"Lady Sansa, it's so nice to—" Tyrion is saying to her sister, but Arya's feet are already moving toward Jon. Within seconds, she has made her way to her brother and jumped into his open arms. He holds her in the air like she weighs nothing, and with her eyes squeezed shut, she can almost imagine that it's their last night in Winterfell before it all fell apart. She feels him bury his face into her small shoulder and whisper her name. She feels like a little kid again, like the fun loving girl she used to be, the one she somehow lost along the way.

Eventually, Jon pulls back and puts her back on the ground. She watches as he takes her in, his deep, brown eyes locked on hers. They are the same eyes she used to look into all those years ago. Somehow, that's enough to make her feel as though everything else will be okay.

"I thought you were dead, Arya," he tells her, his voice choked and a bit rougher than she remembers.

"I almost was," she responds, grinning. "Many times." His eyebrows raise, and she wonders if she's said too much. But Jon just chuckles, putting a hand behind her neck and glancing over her head towards Sansa and Bran.

"Must be a Stark thing," he says. Arya turns to see Sansa conversing with Tyrion and the foreign woman as Bran looks intently at them. Her heart swells, finally feeling like her fractured pieces are mending. On Braavos, she never dared to dream of this, to dream of her family and coming back to Winterfell and this feeling of _home_.

"Jon," Arya hears a strange voice say from behind her. She turns to see a petite, silver haired woman stepping out of the carriage. _Daenerys Targaryen_. Arya watches as her brother takes the woman's hand and helps her down the steps, though Arya doubts she needs the assistance. She carries herself with such confidence that it would be impossible to mistake her for a commoner. Arya makes her way back to her siblings, understanding that a formal introduction must be made.

The Targaryen queen glides over to them, Jon following a step behind. He looks at her with an expression Arya can't quite read. She can tell that he admires this woman, but there seems to be something else in his eyes. Daenerys stops in front of Sansa, her expression serious but not entirely unkind.

"Lady Sansa of Winterfell," she says, and Arya hears the hardness of her voice where it was light when she had spoken her brother's name.

"Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," Sansa responds in an equally hardened voice. The two women stare into each other's eyes for a beat before Daenerys smiles and glances at Jon. He nods to her as if to affirm something.

"Your brother has told me much about you, all of you," she tells them, her eyes roaming over each of the Starks. "I'm glad to finally make your acquaintance."

"As we are glad to meet the woman who saved our King's life beyond the Wall," Sansa says, maintaining a polite but distant tone.

"In truth, Your King saved me," she responds, her expression growing serious. There is a small pause in which no one seems to know what to say.

"At any rate," Tyrion begins, "we should get ourselves settled before dinner." Sansa, seemingly glad to be dealing with something familiar, nods to some of the castle guards.

"Would you show our guests to their chambers?" The guards begin to move, gesturing for the others to follow them. Jon lightly places his hand on Daenerys's arm and whispers something in her ear. She nods and smiles before turning to Tyrion and the foreign girl. Arya watches as the Targaryen queen and her subjects follow the guards. Jon also watches them go, his eyes focused on Daenerys.

"Jon," Arya hears Bran say, and they all turn to face him. "We must talk."

"Bran, it's so good to see you," Jon tells him, his face open and happy. But Bran, in the way Arya has grown accustomed to in the past few weeks, remains stoic as ever.

"I have information for you, Jon," Bran says.

"It'll have to wait until after the feast-" Jon begins, but the sound of the welcome horns interrupt his thought.

The caravan that Jon had arrived with just moments ago is now being taken care of by the castle workers. Arya looks around wondering what the horn could possibly be sounding for. Jon steps towards the gates, pushing his siblings back behind him. Arya shouldn't be surprised; Jon has always been a protector.

"A rider with the Stark colors, my Lord!" the guard on the East Tower yells down to Jon.

"Let 'im in!" Jon yells back with a nod, still poised to fight if a problem arises while Arya grips Needle silently.

The gates of Winterfell open once more, this time for a lone rider, his face bruised, his eyes tired. Jon goes to help him off his horse, but Arya is frozen in her spot. She knows those eyes, knows that lean figure. His hair is shorter than the last time she saw him, the last time she ever thought she'd see him, but he looks stronger. Even beneath all the blood and dirt, beneath that weary frown, she can see the faint whisper of the boy she used to know.

He's leaning on Jon now, his arm wrapped around her brother as he struggles to hold himself up. His face, too, has grown older, more manly. The shadow of hair coats his chin, and Arya feels herself wondering if this is all a dream. The world she knows is too cruel, too unforgiving to allow her this impossible day. A day in which she gets to reunite with her brother and the oldest, greatest friend she's ever had, both of whom were dead to her for years.

"Gendry," she breathes, almost too quiet for anyone to hear, certainly not Gendry himself. But as soon as his name leaves her lips, his eyes turn from Jon to her. They are the same crystal blue she remembers, even from this distance. He stands still for a moment, a look of complete and utter disbelief on his face.

"Arya?" he asks, shaking his head, as if he, too, cannot comprehend it. There is so much distance between them, so many years. Momentarily, she forgets how to breathe or speak or move. She feels herself shaking her head, her heart pounding in her own ears. The space between them seems as impossible to cross as the Wall, and she doesn't understand why because it's Gendry, _her_ Gendry. Brave, loyal, playful Gendry. The boy who travelled with her and bled with her and then left her for men who sent him to the slaughter. And now he's here, alive, looking at her with a disbelief that mirrors her own.

But all of that is forgotten in a blink of an eye because now he's running towards her, and, without consciously realizing it, she's running towards him as well. They collide in a mess of limbs, his arms lifting her up off the ground and spinning her while she buries her face in his neck, not caring that the skin there is covered in dirt. The scent of him reminds her of their adventures together, and of the last time they saw each other all those years ago. Unwelcome, a fit of latent rage takes over.

"I can't believe-" Gendry is saying as they pull back from their hug, Arya's feet falling back to the ground, but she cuts him off with a ferocious hit to his chest. He stumbles back and looks at her in confusion. All of the indignation and fear she felt after he was taken away from her comes rushing back, more powerful now that she can see and touch him.

"I thought you were dead," she growls at him. "I thought that witch had killed you!" There is a stunned silence between them, a painfully heavy weight. But then he smiles, and something inside of her cracks open.

"I thought you were dead, too, ya know," he tells her, rubbing his chest where she hit him. "Shouldn't be surprised though. You were never any good at dying." He grins at her, laughter in his eyes, and all of her anger dissipates. She laughs for the first time in a while. This is the way it has always been: he is the light to her darkness; the playfulness to her seriousness.

"No worse than you, old friend," she says.

"How _did_ you survive all this time?" he asks. "You can't have been 'ere in Winterhell." She shakes her head, still not ready to relive her life in Braavos.

"I'm more interested in how you managed to escape the Red Witch," she says, and she notices his jaw tighten. He's about to say something when they are interrupted by Jon.

"It seems that you two have met before?" he asks with an uncertain smile, putting his hand on Gendry's shoulder. Arya realizes that they seem quite comfortable together and draws the conclusion that they must know one another. She wonders, momentarily, why Jon seems confused if that is the case. Surely Gendry would have mentioned her?

"Yes," Arya answers, looking between her friend and her brother. "We go way back." Gendry smiles before his face falls suddenly.

"Your Grace," he says, turning to face Jon fully, his tone serious. "I came here from the Wall with news of the Night King's Army." Jon looks around at his family, a grave expression replacing his previously joyous one.

"You should all prepare for the feast," he tells his family members. "Our alliance depends on this dinner." He nods to each of them, his eyes lingering on Arya, before leading Gendry away, both of them speaking in hushed tones.

Arya watches them go with a strange mix of happiness and foreboding. When Gendry looks back at her, she smiles, the warmth inside of her growing even in the cold of a Winterfell sunset. For the first time since she left this place many years ago, Arya feels an unfamiliar sense of hope spreading throughout her body, mending her broken pieces.

She doesn't trust it.

* * *

Sansa Stark isn't particularly fond of this young Targaryen queen. Not only is she a foreigner who descends from those who burned Sansa's ancestors alive and killed her aunt, but she is also much too dear to her brother. From the moment Littlefinger mentioned marriage between the two, Sansa has been suspicious. But she has never known Jon to be susceptible to the charms of a beautiful woman. And Daenerys is beautiful; only a blind man would miss it, and Sansa is neither blind nor a man.

Yet, sure enough, Jon has fallen for this traitor queen. Sansa could see it in the way he held the her hand for a bit too long as he helped her out of the carriage, in the lingering weight of his gaze on the back of her head as she greeted them, in the tenderness of his whisper when she was leaving for her chambers. Sansa cannot imagine what Jon must be thinking, to enter into such a relationship knowing how fragile their world has become.

Jon must truly care for her, this queen, for that is his way. She had asked him once about the rumors of his broken vows and his time with the Wildlings. So Jon had explained the events that unfolded in his time at the Night's Watch. He told her that he had been forced to kill one of his superiors in order to gain the Wildling's trust and respect, told her that he had lived with them and climbed the Wall with them and, as a result, learned to respect their lifestyle. Then, after he had done away with the facts of his tale, he told her about the truth underneath the facts. More specifically, his love for a Wildling named Ygritte.

Sansa had never heard Jon speak in such a tender voice, not to her anyway. He spoke of the girl's vibrant hair and cutting tongue, her bravery and ruthlessness. Sansa could tell that he admired her, that he had grown into his feelings for her. And when he told of her death, her life taken by the same boy who would eventually take Jon's and Jon would take in return, his eyes glowed with unshed tears. But even though she was sure that Jon had loved Ygritte, there was an edge to his voice, like that love was mixed with something painful, like parts of him, parts he surely pushed down, had never quite forgotten the tainted nature of the affair.

Sansa tried not to think too deeply about it, though, for who in this world ever truly loves another outside of family? She herself has never felt a deep devotion to a husband or lover, despite having been engaged thrice and married twice. Sansa often wonders if love even _can_ exist in this world, in this hell Westeros has created. But then she remembers her parents and thinks that there may be hope after all.

"Lady Sansa," she hears Tyrion call from behind her. She has been staring at the snow-covered lands beyond her home, watching the King's Road, oblivious to her surroundings. She turns around to face her first husband, giving him a polite smile. He seems wrong in this setting, like a character from one tale dropped suddenly and jarringly into another. The dirty blonde curls on his head stand out against the grey stone and powdery snow, the red blush of his cheeks giving away his southern heritage. Sansa never thought she would see him again when she fled King's Landing, so he appears to her like a memory, a ghost of sorts, though he is one of the few people from her past who doesn't haunt her in the dead of night.

"Lord Tyrion," she says, addressing him with a curt nod. She watches as he admires her dress, one she made specifically for this occasion. It is a deep grey with white embroidery, a tribute to her house colors. She made a matching one for Arya when Jon had sent word of the gathering, but whether or not Arya will wear it is a mystery.

"You are looking lovely, as always," Tyrion notes, settling himself by her side. She realizes how much he has changed since the last time she saw him, how his eyes have grown hard like the image of her own reflected each morning in her dead parents' mirror. They both look out at the icy hills of the North.

"Thank you, my Lord," she responds, more out of habit than anything. Tyrion gives a small chuckle.

"No need for such formalities, my girl," he tells her. "We're not in King's Landing anymore, and that title no longer suits me, if it ever did." She allows herself a small smile at the sentiment. She feels, rather than sees, Tyrion gaze at her out of the corner of his eye, his mouth forming a small smile of its own.

"I suppose we have both come a long way since we last met," Sansa admits.

"Yes," Tyrion agrees. "I've betrayed and abandoned my family while you've found and saved yours." He lets out a weak chuckle, but Sansa sees through him. He's more affected by his actions than he wants everyone to believe. She finds herself in a strange position of understanding, of knowing what it is like to wish for things to be simpler.

"It wasn't me who saved them," she tells him. "In truth, they saved themselves."

"I believe you," Tyrion confesses. "You Starks are tougher than you seem."

"Only because the world has forced our hand in the matter." Sansa hears her voice strain as she says the words, though she meant for it to be a lighthearted comment. A hot ball of emotion threatens to spill out of her, her throat closing as the snow around her glistens. Just thinking about the hardships her siblings have endured makes her both blind with maddening rage and sick with guilt and grief. And after all of it, after all the pain and misery and loss, they found their way home to Winterfell only to be charged with the responsibility of an impossible war.

"The world can be a cruel place, Sansa," Tyrion murmurs softly, as if he can read her thoughts, his hand covering hers on the stone ledge in front of them. His skin is cold where it meets hers, the lion in him not quite suited for the likes of winter in the North. He rests his fingers there for only a moment before pulling them back into his heavy coat, but Sansa can sense his sincerity. "What it takes away, it refuses to give back."

His words tumble through her memory, bringing with them the image of an uneaten plate and unwelcome stares. It had been only days after the news of the Red Wedding had made its way to King's Landing. Two everchanging green eyes stared at her, their edges crinkled in guilt and worry. It was rare, back then, to see anyone turn that expression on her with such conviction, such sincerity, as if it were a secret best kept in the darkest parts of her heart.

"And what it gives, it refuses to let you keep," Sansa responds as the fog memory fades into the present, noting the look of surprise on Tyrion's face. "You said that to me after the death of my brother and mother." She can still hear the faint echoes of his quiet voice attempting to reassure her. It had been quite the strange situation, her first marriage. Even though she had detested the Lannisters at the time, she could never bring herself to hate her husband. She has never quite understood why. Perhaps it was his unexpected gentleness, the warm embers of kindness that had kept her heart from freezing over.

"I didn't think you would remember," Tyrion admits.

"How I wish to forget." There is a silence between them, not quite comfortable but not entirely unpleasant either. It's not about the past or the future, the war that has been or the war that is to come. It's about understanding.

Suddenly, Sansa hears a screech and feels a large gust of wind. A dragon appears above her, its wings outstretched to allow it to glide. She presses her hand to her heart, an odd mannerism she knows she got from her mother.

"It's alright," Tyrion assures her. "They're harmless unless their mother wishes otherwise." It's the first time he's brought up the fiery woman he now serves.

"Yes, your Targaryen queen is quite the conqueror."

"She only desires to take back what is rightfully hers." Sansa recalls the stories of her childhood, the ones about the Targaryens flying in on their dragons and uniting the Seven Kingdoms. They created the Iron Throne on which Tyrion's queen wishes to sit, and they had done it through battles and blood and threats. But Tyrion knows all of this, so Sansa thinks it best not to disagree. Instead, she takes a different route in her questioning.

"And what do you desire, Tyrion Lannister?" There is a long pause before he answers.

"A better world than the shit one we've always known," he tells her. It sounds almost like something Jon would say, and she catches her companion's lip curling upward slightly as if the words are a joke only he understands.

"And Daenerys Targaryen will be the one to bring forth such a world?" Sansa asks. "You really believe that?"

"I believe in _her_ ," Tyrion says. "So do all of her followers: the Dothraki, the Unsullied, her advisors. She freed us all in a way, and we believe she can free the Seven Kingdoms as well."

"We're already free." As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes just how untrue they are.

"Not as long as my sister sits on that throne," Tyrion states. "You're too smart to not understand that." There is a tense moment in which Sansa doesn't know what to say. Because he's right; she does understand that. Hell, she as much said that to Jon before he left for Dragonstone. "Jon believes in her. We wouldn't be here otherwise. Your brother-"

"Has his own reasons," Sansa interrupts, glad to see the shock and confusion on Tyrion's face. "A fact that makes me all the more suspicious."

"You're quite perceptive, Lady Sansa," he grants. He composes himself and turns so that he is facing her, though her body is still turned towards the outer grounds of Winterfell. "But perhaps you should talk to your brother before you make any assumptions." Then he takes his leave, his footsteps shuffling behind her. Finally, out of what she convinces herself is courtesy, she turns around.

"I hope to see you again this evening for the feast, my Lord," Sansa says. He stops, turning his head only slightly, his back still to her. The light of day is waning, the sun slipping quietly behind the horizon, and it makes Tyrion look like a shadow against the walls of Winterfell.

"I'm looking forward to it, my Lady," he responds. And just like that, the shadow disappears, leaving only the fading light of another long day shining on Sansa's home.


	3. Where Fire Meets Ice

Daenerys shouldn't be this nervous. In fact, she shouldn't be nervous at all. She's faced worse than a few stubborn northern lords. Yet, she can't shake the feeling that this is somehow different, that the result of this feast holds more significance than anything that has come before. Maybe it's because of the impending war. Or maybe it's that this will determine her fate in regards to her beloved.

"Are you ready, My Queen?" she hears Tyrion ask her as he prepares to walk with her to the main hall of Winterfell. She nods, allowing her door to fall shut behind her. Together they walk towards the feast, sounds of merriment already filling the stone halls. She spots Jon across the hall, Sir Davos devotedly at his side. Their heads are bent in discussion, but, as soon as Jon sees her, he smiles. Almost all of the doom and gloom lifts off of him.

"You look lovely this evening, Your Highness," Jon says, and she can tell by the hungry look in his eyes that he means every word. He continues taking in her appearance, her embroidered dress adorned with a shawl and diamond necklace. She has chosen to wear red as a tribute to her house colors, but the adornments of the outfit are all white as a tribute to the North.

Daenerys takes the arm Jon offers her, and they turn to face the large doors blocking them from the Great Hall, where the feast is being held. She feels him squeeze her hand to reassure her, and, when Tyrion asks if she is ready, she nods. Together, as the doors open, the four of them walk down the center aisle to take their seats at the table. The rest of the guests sit as Jon gestures for them to do so.

The hall is filled with people dressed in a variety of outfits from armor to finery. Stark banners hang from each of the windows, leading the way to the head table on a raised platform at the end of the room. Grey stone and wooden tables are covered with hot food and shining silverware. Daenerys feels the weight of the northerners' stares as she sits on Jon's right side, his sisters to his left. Jon's brother Bran sits on her own right side, his eyes glassy as if the boy is travelling elsewhere in his mind. The royals' Hands sit at the ends of the table, close enough to be noted as important, but far enough not to be mistaken as royalty themselves. After a moment of near silence in the hall, Jon addresses the room.

"Noble Lords and Ladies," he begins. "We are gathered here to welcome a new ally into our home. Queen Daenerys Targaryen has come all the way across the Narrow Sea to Westeros after a lifetime spent in foreign lands. She is here to aid us in our fight against the Night King and his army." He looks down at her and extends his hand. "Daenerys."

She takes his hand and stands, facing the crowd of northerners, looking out into an endless sea of glares and scowls. Instinctively, she turns to look at Jon, his steady gaze never failing to reassure her. He nods to her as he takes his seat, and she takes a deep breath before addressing the room.

"Your King speaks true," she begins, her voice echoing through the hall. "I have come to fight alongside the North in its battle against the dead." There are murmurs amongst the attendees. Many of them look at her with a mixture of rage and disgust, others just seem doubtful. "I know many of you do not trust me, do not trust that I am here to help because you have suffered at the hands of my ancestors, at the hands of those who also came to you with promises of victory and freedom. Maybe you've lost someone because of that deceit, perhaps a family member, a spouse, a child. You think I'm here to conquer you, to steal your livelihood and live up in a pretty tower. Or maybe you think I'm here just to burn this place to the ground." She gives them a bold smile, and a few horrified faces blanch at that.

"But I am not my father, nor am I the kind of ruler who sits back and lets others sacrifice for my cause without doing the same. I understand what you have endured, and I realize that there is nothing I can say that will make you believe in my vow to defend your home and this nation." She surveys the room, trying to meet the defiant eyes of each nothern lord and lady. "So I will prove it to you with my actions.

"My armies are at your king's disposal, as are my two remaining dragons. Whatever the North needs to defeat this enemy, I will provide. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. I have spent my life acquiring armies, allies, and resources in hopes to one day rid the Seven Kingdoms of tyranny, and I'll be damned if I allow the Night King to win this war." The hall is silent at the end of her speech.

After a few seconds tick by, Jon stands next to her and says, "Now that introductions are out of the way, let's eat!" The hall erupts into cheers, and Daenerys allows herself to let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

She sits, locking eyes with her fair-haired Hand. Tyrion nods slightly, the only sign of approval she needs. Jon's hand finds her thigh under the table, the weight and warmth of it soothing her, rooting her to this moment. Looking around, she realizes it's not a bad moment to be rooted in.

At the end of the table to her right, Arya perches on the edge of her chair in a peculiar outfit. It seems as though the girl is wearing both a dress _and_ fighting leathers. Her frayed pants are only visible at her ankles, where worn shoes meet beautiful cloth. But her chest is covered in a layer of shiny fabric, hints of her gown peeking through the material. She looks only slightly uncomfortable, shifting in her seat every few minutes, her face a mask of calm.

Yet, every once in a while, Dany catches her face turn into something else, something like longing. And then confusion at that longing. Dany follows Arya's line of sight back to a sturdy, brown-haired man, one of the men who accompanied Jon to the wall if she's not mistaken. Gendry. That's his name. And the more she watches, the more she notices that the man's eyes wander to Arya when the girl isn't looking, the same strange mix of emotions clouding his countenance.

To Arya's side sits Lady Sansa, her beautiful face surrounded by waves of embers, her eyes clear and alert. There is a tentative lift to the corners of her lips, as if she might smile any second, or laugh with joy. But there is also weariness in her expression, the likes of which Dany recognizes from each time she looks at a mirror. She makes a mental note to have a chat with the woman, so that they might come to know each other as friends, perhaps even family.

 _Family_. The word has been so many things to Daenerys. First, it was a curse, a cruel brother she couldn't escape, a name and fate she couldn't outrun. Then, it was devastation, the death of her husband and child, the loss of a life she had barely glimpsed before it was taken from her. But it became hopeful when she hatched her dragons. It became strength when she befriended Milassande and freed cities of slaves who called her their mother. Looking at Jon, though, the word begins to feel new and exciting. Gazing around the hall, here in the sheltered warmth of Winterfell, she begins to picture these people as her people, this family as her family. It is a vibrant imagining, one she desires to hold onto.

She turns to see Jon smiling at her, his face reflecting the joy and hope in her own heart. And somehow, despite the impending war, despite the politics and deceit and games, Dany's heart expands in her chest. It's almost painful, loving him. Yet she wouldn't have it any other way.

She will fight for this. She has been fighting for lofty ideals and far away lands her whole life. But now she has something, _someone_ to fight for. For Jon, their people, and the family she hopes to one day share with him, she will fight to the bitter end.

* * *

Bran Stark is aware of how cold and damp this place is. At least, he is aware of it in the distant way he can be aware of such things now. Statues of his fallen family members are all around him, yet he feels no deep sentiment towards them. It's like he is standing behind a sheet of glass: protected from the full experience of it, but not wholly unaffected. Jon, Daenerys, Arya, and Sansa stand around him in the crypts of Winterfell, their faces expectant. He feels Sam's presence at his back, a gesture perhaps meant for comfort, though Bran has become untethered to such needs or emotions. Still, a small, human part of him is grateful for it, for all of it.

He still remembers the dreams he had before everything changed. Dreams of reuniting with his lost family, of seeing his siblings again in this place they call home. He dreamed of seeing his parents again, of going back to a time before all was lost. They were the foolish hopes of a naive boy. And now he no longer has such notions, being what he is.

Now he can see beyond, so there is no need for dreaming. He can see the past, filled with such blood and hatred and pain. He can see the present, which is often more of the same. He can see the future, too. In flashes and fragments. It's never clear, always changing. Grasping the image of the future is like trying to hold a single snowflake in your hand; as soon at you have it, it disappears. Still, Bran can feel the necessity of certain actions in creating future events. And this action, telling them all the truth, it must be done.

The northern king interrupts his thoughts to ask why they are gathered here. The Three Eyed Raven just looks at the man, recognition and something like sadness running through him. The human part of him delights at the sound of the man's voice, a voice he had resigned himself never to hear again. With a deep breath, he begins his tale, the story of Aegon Targaryen. His voice is steady, and Sam jumps in to explain things whenever necessary.

At the conclusion of his tale, there is silence and confusion. Jon's eyes are gleaming, as are Daenerys's. Arya and Sansa are looking at Jon as if they've never seen him before. Bran thinks idly that the boy in him would know exactly what to say or do to bring them together once more, but such gifts were the price of his sight, and he has little choice but to continue to pay.

So he watches as Jon excuses himself and heads to his chambers. He watches as Daenerys follows him without hesitation, as Arya sinks down against the stone of the Crypt walls and Sansa warmly thanks Sam for his assistance, her voice shaking all the while. He watches and he waits for each possible future to eliminate itself with the passing of a second. He waits for new futures to appear, created from the corpses of paths left untravelled.

He waits to see which future he must hold onto before it melts away forever.


	4. Fire Calls to Fire

"It doesn't change anything." Jon says the words like he's trying to convince himself of their truth. Dany stands facing him in his bedchambers, unsure of how to move forward. The information Bran revealed is still swirling around in hr mind, unsettled and distant. She doesn't know what it all means for her quite yet, though she loathes to face the undeniable thought that it brings to mind. No, her immediate concern is Jon.

"It doesn't have to," she reassures him, but her voice wavers, and the look he gives her shatters any illusion that he believes the words. "But…" She doesn't continue, leaving him the space to consider the bomb that was just dropped. Jon sighs heavily and lets his head fall into his hands while sitting on the edge of his bed. She wants to go to him, to be by his side through all of this, but her doubts get the best of her so she stays where she is.

"I'm the heir," he finally whispers, his eyes unfocused as he gazes at her. "All my life I've been a person that no one could guess existed. I've lived a lie."

"And yet you've become the leader and warrior you were born to be," Daenerys asserts. "And you did it without a name or title or birthright."

"I'm a bastard," Jon says, as if he hasn't even heard her words. "I'm Ned Stark's bastard son. I've known that, lived with it, my whole life." He looks down at his own hands, his brow furrowing as if he is seeing them for the first time, as if he does not even recognize the skin he wears. "But now...my father was not truly my father."

"Ned Stark raised you and loved you like like a father, and that counts for more than blood relation," Daenerys tells him, desperate for him to hear her, to understand her words.

"He lied to me," Jon retorts, despair apparent in his tone. "He lied to everyone." His voice is small, as if echoing from miles away.

"He lied to protect you," Dany argues. "Ned Stark was an honorable man, and yet he let people believe that he would dishonor his wife and family by bringing a bastard into this world. He let his own family believe that he would do such a thing. He died keeping the secret of your identity so that you might live a better life." Jon seems to consider this, his jaw twitching slightly, his eyes turned towards the window. "Believe me when I say that the Targaryen name is not something you can run or hide from once it is given to you." At that, he finally looks at her again, a new emotion in his eyes, though she can't quite place it.

"Targaryen," he states, as if tasting the word in his mouth. "Jon Snow is the name I have known all this time. The name of a Northern bastard worth only the respect he could earn. Now, Jon Snow does not exist. I suppose he never truly did. My name is Aegon Targaryen and I am heir to the Iron Throne." He shakes his head, gets up and walks to the window. There are a few moments of silence that fill the space of the room. Dany eventually joins him, both of them looking out at the white expanse of the North. "What if I don't want it?"

Daenerys considers his question. On the one hand, Jon taking the throne at the end of all this would alleviate some of the pressure that she has always felt. And she would finally have someone decent to share in the burden of her family's legacy. Jon would be a good King, maybe even a great one. He's already proven that beyond measure. Ruling has been forced upon him, often because he felt responsible for his people, not because of bloodline. There is no madness in him, no desire to chase after power for its own sake. He would make a gracious, fair, and honorable leader.

Yet, Jon is not pondering his ability to rule. He is questioning his identity, and his desire to take on all that comes with the new one Bran has just revealed. Perhaps she cannot decide this for him, but she _can_ decide her own fate. Daenerys has worked too hard and suffered too much to just sit back and let another person rule the Seven Kingdoms, even if that person is Jon. A desperate thought enters her mind, an easy, simple solution to this problem, but she shoots it down as soon as it appears, her initial doubts blocking it from fully forming.

"What _do_ you want?" she asks him eventually.

"You," he states, as if on impulse. She turns to him in surprise, only to find herself staring into his eyes.

"Me?"

"You are the only thing of which I am sure," Jon expresses. He steps toward her, closing the distance between them, and takes her hands into his own. He looks down at their joined hands and takes a deep breath. "I do not know what to make of this new information. I do not know what it makes me or how it affects the future. I just know that if I am to figure it out, I need you by my side."

"What are you saying, Jon?" she questions, attempting to drag his eyes up to her own through the urgency of her tone. He gazes up at her finally, with a sort of hopeful determination lining his features. Then he says the two words she has dreaded and hoped for in all the time since she fell for him.

"Marry me," he breathes. "Marry me, for you must know the depth of my love by now. Marry me, and we will rule together, as one." The sincerity of his words takes her breath away. The urge to agree to his proposal is overwhelming. Yet, there it is again, the crucial, undeniable thought she had immediately after digesting the news. A doubt she cannot ignore.

"I…" she starts, a ball of emotion blocking the words as they journey up her throat. Every moment they've spent together plays on repeat in her mind, making the task even more difficult. It would be so easy to just give in, to say yes, but she knows the words that she must say instead.

So, she does the one thing she knows will force them out; she kisses him. It's not a passionate kiss, or a very long one. The kiss she gives him is one full of sorrow and regret, full of the life she wishes they could have together. It's a goodbye kiss, a last kiss, the tender touching of lips to seal a promise made unbeknownst to its recipient. When he smiles against her mouth, she can't bring herself to smile back.

As she pulls back from the kiss, Daenerys allows herself to think of the words she's not brave enough to say aloud: _I love you. I love you. Goodbye._

Then, with their foreheads pressed together, Daenerys whispers the worst, most hideous words in all the Seven Kingdoms: "I cannot marry you, Jon Snow."

* * *

Jon stumbles back, recoiling at her words. He feels the sense of assurity he had only seconds ago slipping through the cracks in his heart.

"Let me explain, Jon," she begs. The desperation in her voice stalls any confusion or disappointment he feels. "It is not for a lack of love that I must reject your proposal."

"Then what is it?" Jon inquires, his mind scrambling to understand this turn of events. "Is it about what Bran revealed? About my true name and heritage?"

"As much as I would like to say otherwise, yes," Daenerys responds. "We cannot ignore what this means for the future of the Seven Kingdoms as well as the Targaryen lineage. Your true identity, the knowledge that you are the only other living Targaryen, it condemns us."

"Condemns us? This knowledge does nothing of the sort. If anything, it sets us free." He approaches her once more, taking her face into his hands. "The fact that we share blood does not do anything to change the love I have for you. Nor does it change the fact that our marriage would solidify the alliance that will face the Night King. So marry me, be my queen, and my partner, for the rest of our days, no matter how few of them we might have left."

He watches as she struggles, as if she is fighting a battle within herself. Tears trickle down her cheeks, his thumbs wiping them away. For a moment, as she leans into his touch and her eyelids droop, it seems as though she might give in. But then her eyes go wide again, and the trance is broken.

"No," she shakes her head and steps back from him. "Jon, can't you see? We can never be together now. Not because of our relation, but because of the name we now share, the lineage that we must continue. I cannot have children to carry on the Targaryen name, but you…you can."

"Dany…"

"I know you think my curse to be falsehood, but I have known it to be true," she explains. "After my husband and child died and the witch laid her words upon me, I took up a lover for many years. I never so much as missed one of my cycles. So I'm telling you, Jon, with an excruciating sense of certainty, that if we wed, I would not be able to bare you a child."

"Then we will have no children," Jon asserts. "It's not as if I thought it a possibility before." Though the thought of having children with Dany lights something in his chest, he would give that future up in a heartbeat for a future with her.

"Jon, the Targaryen line must continue past us," she retorts.

"The Targaryen line is nearly extinct," Jon reminds her.

"Which is why you must revive it." She shakes her head, sadness apparent in her features, though her tone is insistent. "Your children must rule after we are gone."

" _My_ children? What were you planning to do before, if you are so convinced that you can't have heirs?"

"It doesn't matter now."

"Humor me," he insists.

"Tyrion and I have discussed electing someone as my heir, but-"

"Then why can't we do that?" Jon asks. "If we wed, and we cannot have children, then we will elect our heir."

"An heir with a weak claim to power," she argues. "What happens when the people start thinking that our heir has no right to rule because he or she has no royal claim or lineage?"

"Royal blood can be just as faulty. Robert took over the Seven Kingdoms with nothing but his rage against your brother, and royal lineage was of little importance in the outcome."

"But your children would have more security-"

"When have any of us known true security? Bloodlines do not guarantee such things. The Targaryen name once seemed invincible, and now it barely exists. My own family has been hunted and executed when we were once safely tucked away in our ancestral home." He pauses and watches her take in his words. "Dany, even if we could have a child, it would face the same level of scrutiny and danger as any other heir we would choose." He can see her resolve wavering. "I know there are a million reasons not to marry me, but I'm asking you to have faith in us, in our ability to conquer all of those issues together."

"The northern lords…" she begins, but even she seems to think it a weak argument. Jon takes her hands in his once more.

"We will face them together," he whispers. The edges of her lips begin to lift.

"The Night King and Cersei?"

"Together," he breathes, staring into her eyes so that she feels his sincerity. Then, finally, she smiles. And it cracks something open in his chest.

"Together," she repeats, something like hope coating her voice.

"So," he begins after a moment of contented silence. "Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, and keeper of my heart, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"

"Yes." Her eyes are gleaming once more, though this time from joy. He wonders at the knowledge that he is the source of such happiness. "Jon Snow…Aegon Targaryen…whatever you wish to call your self, I will marry you."

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Jon sweeps her up into his arms and kisses her. She returns the kiss fiercely, smiling into his mouth. But then she pulls back suddenly, letting out a gasp, her eyes comedically wide.

"What are we going to tell Tyrion?"

* * *

Tyrion fought against it at first, not particularly fond of the idea. Just a few days ago, his queen all but promised him that they would keep their affair a secret. He tried to argue with Daenerys, yet once Jon revealed his true heritage, there was little to support his dissent. How could he refuse them then? He was astonished once more when the king and queen declared that they would marry that very night, with or without his blessing. Though Daenerys did admit that she would rather it be _with_ than without. So here they are, under the weirwood tree in the godswood of Winterfell.

The white landscape turns even the air ethereal, and the light droplets of pale snow anoint the lovers as the most blessed of people. Jon and Daenerys stand facing each other in the center, their closest friends and family around them. Tyrion himself takes up his place on his queen's side, opposite Jon's friend Samwell Tarly. To Sam's right stands Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Ser Davos. Tyrion glances briefly to his left to see Missandei, Grey Worm, Jorah, and Varys gazing at the couple.

They are a sight to behold, the King of the North and his Dragon Queen. Dusk falls upon Winterfell as the ritual begins, transforming the landscape into a mosaic. The ceremony goes on forever, but Jon and Daenerys don't seem to notice or care. Their smiles are warm and unending in the way only love can produce. Tyrion wonders if they even notice that anyone else is present, or if there is only the two of them, two undying flames against the fierce iciness of this world. After all, fire calls to fire. And together, they could burn down all of Westeros just to build it anew.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…" the pair begin, their hands knotted together, a searing intensity behind their eyes.

"I am hers and she is mine," Jon recites as Daenerys says, "I am his and he is mine."

"From this day until the end of my days." With that, their vows are sealed.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Jon whispers, his voice gruff. Then he leans over and kisses his bride. Instantly, a pulse goes through the woods, a sort of warmth that radiates from the pair for only a moment before it's gone. Tyrion would probably think he imagined it if not for the faces of those around him. Each person in attendance wears an expression of confusion and surprise. Except for Bran.

No, the youngest Stark sibling, who usually dons a mask of complete complacency, is smiling like a plan he's laid has fallen perfectly into place.


	5. The Flames of Desire

Arya is happy for her brother, she really is. Or, well, she's happy for her cousin who was raised as her brother. Or maybe he's still her brother. Honestly, their relation has gotten a bit confusing as of late. It doesn't really matter, she supposes as morning rises on the halls of Winterfell. She doesn't have much mental space to ponder it with Gendry looking at her the way he is.

They are seated across from each other in the main hall, a sunrise banquet having been called to celebrate the newest royal marriage. The northern lords were not overjoyed when the newlyweds announced their union, but they begrudgingly accepted the match as a beneficial alliance. They still do not know of Jon's true name or heritage. Only those who were in attendance the previous night for the marriage ceremony are privy to the news. As the hall fills with lively conversation, Arya attempts to avoid returning Gendry's stare, but there are only so many places she can look without making her avoidance obvious. Finally, she forces herself to match his gaze. It's a surprising jolt to her nerves, and she does her best to mask her shock.

He has always been handsome, but she had noted it with objective distance before. Now, he has grown even more so, and she cannot ignore what that does to the blood in her veins. His crystal irises whisper of the ice castles of her youth, and she feels his gaze in on her skin with all force of the unwavering heat in Braavos. They haven't spoken since their abrupt and unexpected reunion the day before.

"You have quite the reputation around here," Gendry begins before Arya can find something to say.

She knows what he means but chooses to ignore it by saying, "Winterfell is my home. Of course I am well known here." He smiles, amused by her avoidance.

"It's strange imagining you growing up in this place," Gendry states. "I don't know how you could stand the cold."

"My apologies if the northern conditions are too harsh for your southern sensibilities." He meets her smirk with one of his own.

"No need, m'lady," he responds, his grin widening when she glares at him for using that term. "I quite enjoy the change of pace." They share a moment of contented silence.

"It may have been cold out there," she starts, gesturing ambiguously to the world outside of Winterfell, "but this place was always warm." The look he gives her tells her that he understands that she is not speaking of the weather.

"What was it like?" he asks.

"Awful," she jokes with a playful grimace. "My mother made me learn boring, useless skills like sowing. Sansa was great at it, but all I could think about was learning to fight."

Gendry laughs at that and says, "You never were a proper lady."

She shrugs and responds, "I never wanted to be." Her words give him pause, and his eyebrows scrunch together. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, as if he cannot figure out what to say, or how to say it. Eventually, he seems to find the right words.

"Where'd you learn the art of execution?" The question shouldn't shock her as much as it does. She is almost surprised enough answer honestly, but the clang of silverware reminds her of their public setting.

"I could ask you the same," she responds vaguely. Gendry tilts his head inquisitively. "Davvos may have told me a thing or two about how you came to be in my brother's service." he nods gravely, then looks around as if just now recognizing their lack of privacy. The small downturn of the right side of his mouth tells her that he has come to the same conclusion that she has: anything important they have to share requires them to be alone.

"My skills are rooted in craft rather than killing," Gendry finally says. "But certain circumstances have forced my hand in the past, and I have a feeling they will do so once more before this war is over." She can tell that he wants to say more.

After a moment of consideration, she clears her throat and stands up. A few heads turn toward her, but she just excuses herself from the hall, subtly gesturing form Gendry to meet her in the corridor adjacent to this room. He nods just as discreetly, and she goes to wait for him in their meeting spot. After a few endless minutes, he appears in front of her.

"What took you so long?" Arya asks.

"Some of us aren't royalty around here, m'lady," he retorts. "I had to come up with an excuse as to why I was leaving your brother's marriage banquet."

"And what did you come up with?"

"Said I had some work to do in the forge, of course."

"Don't you _actually_ have work to do in the forge?" she asks. "Making weapons to use against the Night King?"

"Sure but I think I can spare a few minutes to catch up with an old friend," he says, grinning.

"War waits for no one," Arya states. "Minutes can be the difference between life and death." There is a moment of silence between them.

"You know, you were always pretty intense, but something's different about you now." Gendry's eyebrows travel inward, his gaze searching for something he's missed.

"Of course I'm different," she retorts, feeling conflicted all of a sudden. She had thought she wanted to tell him about her past, but a voice in her head is telling her not to. Telling her that he wouldn't understand, that he would be disgusted. "We haven't seen each other in years. You've changed, too."

"You're right," he agrees. "I almost died at the hands of that Red Witch, and I barely escaped with my life thanks to Davvos. I'd been working in King's Landing ever since, biding my time when Davvos came to get me again, told me what your brother was doing, and I knew I had to help, had to fight." He pauses, steps closer to her. She notices how secluded this corridor is, how hidden and private and small. She notices the exact amount of space between Gendry's body and her own. She wants to believe it's just her training, wants to convince herself that she's just taking in her surroundings. But she's not fond of wishful thinking, and Gendry is no threat to her.

"So yeah I've learned a few things, been through some shit," he continues. "But you, Arya, you disappeared a stubborn, clever little girl and came back a warrior. That doesn't just happen."

"Maybe it does," she says, hoarding her secrets close to her chest, hoping they won't spill out of her grasp before she's ready to let them go. "Maybe I lived in the forest, learning to fight and survive. Maybe I got bored eventually and decided to come home." He shakes his head.

"No, you didn't," he states, like it's fact, like he can see into her mind and read the truth of her experiences. "Whatever it was, it wasn't peaceful or boring."

"How would you know?" she asks, trying to hide the telltale clench of her jaw.

"I know you," he declares, as if she should already know the answer. He tilts his head slightly. "I know who you used to be, and I know that now there's a...darkness inside you." She attempts to continue breathing normally, but it's hard, especially with him standing so close and peering into her heart.

"Does it scare you?" she asks, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Do _I_ scare you?"

"Yes," he breathes. "But not because I think you'll hurt me." There is almost no air between them, no space. She's looking up into his icy irises, confused at his words, his fear. But then, she thinks maybe she understands after all. And she, too, is terrified.

"Gendry," she exhales, surprise and amazement and desire fusing together at her core.

"What happened all those years, Arya?"

"You might not like me so much if I tell you," she struggles to say. The words taste like dirt in her mouth.

"Not possible," he breathes, leaning into her. Any tension he had a moment ago slips away. It's like he's finally made a difficult decision, like he's letting go and giving his fate to the Seven Faced God. As he moves closer, her eyes are falling closed of their own volition, and her senses are filled with him.

His lips graze hers and suddenly the heat of Braavos seems chilly in comparison to the fire his kiss ignites. Strong hands come up to grip the sides of her face, calluses rough against her skin. His mouth his soft on hers, light and hesitant. She's burning, slowly, from the inside out. Melting at each point where his skin mets hers. She's hungry, she realizes. Hungry like she's never been before. She's about to pull him closer, about to devour him, when he leans back, breaking the contact of their lips. He doesn't let go of her though, his hands still holding her head like her neck isn't doing a good enough job. He's looking into her eyes like her irises hold all the answers in the universe, like they are pools of pure ecstasy and all he has to do is dive in.

"I probably shouldn't have done that," he says, his chest rising and falling heavily. His words are remorseful, but nothing about him seems sorry. He says the words like he knows it's what he _should_ say, what he _should_ feel or know or think. But he doesn't. His eyes are alight with mischief and wonder and some emotion she can't quite place. They are jumping from her eyes to her lips and back again.

"Yeah, probably not," she responds, finding her own voice a bit hoarse. And she can see it in the flick of his tongue on his lower lip, in the hot breath coming too fast from his eager mouth, in the way he is staring like he's never seen anything like her before and may never again. Arya has spent years on the run, in the streets. She knows hunger when she sees it. And Gendry is starving.

So she reaches for him desperately, pulling his lips down to hers once more, allowing him to fit his body against hers. She craves the fire in his touch. He is rain in the deserts of Essos, bread in the midst of famine, a sword returning to its sheath after a long, bloody battle. Or maybe this kiss is the battle, for their lips are aggressive with each other like they are caught in a duel. She's never done this before, never cared to, and she's not sure that this is how it's supposed to be, not sure that she's doing it right. But if she's doing it wrong, Gendry makes no complaints.

She digs her fingers into his back, pressing his body tighter against her own, needing to feel more of him, all of him. He's sighing into her mouth, her cheek, her neck, pressing her back into the wall that she had barely noticed behind her. His hands are travelling along her torso, tracing nonsensical patterns into her skin through the fabric covering her body. And suddenly she wants to rip off all the layers between them, just to feel his skin flush against hers. As if sensing this, Gendry shrugs off his heavy coat, stipping her of her jacket as well. It's better, but still not enough. She has a feeling that she'll never be able to get close enough to him to satiate her desire.

Her hands have moved to his head, holding it in place so that she can take from the endless luxury that is his mouth. She thinks she hears him saying her name, sealing it to her own lips, like a whisper of gratitude to a god who answered his most desperate prayer. But she can't focus on anything right now, can't understand anything but the taste of his lips, the feel of his skin, the heat of their embrace. She's sure that later she will find scorch marks all over her body where he's touching her. They are an inferno, a fire that refuses to die, the brightest, most searing part of a flame.

He bites her bottom lip and she thinks that this is it. This is the moment they catch fire entirely. The lords and the ladies of Winterfell will come to watch them go up in flames together. They will wonder at the charred figures intertwined at the center of the blaze; they will question the source of the heat, here in the halls of her home in the dead of winter. They will whisper of two lovers caught up in mutual destruction, mermer their condolences with just the slightest hint of condescension. Arya can't force herself to care.

Because now he's picking her up, his craftsman's hands gripping her thighs, burning handprints into her skin. She wraps her legs around him and makes an inhuman sound in the back of her throat when he presses closer, a new kind of heat building between her legs. She's ravenous now, and she's never known hunger like this before. The more she takes, the more she wants. She wants more than two hands with which to touch him, more than one mouth with which to kiss him, more than one body with which to worship him. She wants another heart because she doesn't think the one she has is going to be able to take much more of this without exploding.

She has never experienced wanting like this. She thought she wanted revenge more than anything, thought she understood what it was to be driven to near insanity by desire. But that feeling pales in comparison to this all consuming fire. It's in her blood, in her bones. It's elemental, like a devastating storm or waves crashing against a shoreline. Inevitable, unstoppable, powerful. Her hands find the hem of his shirt and she tugs up, up, up, until they are both gasping at the feel of her fingers against his abdomen. She hesitates at the way he tenses up under her touch. They both go still for a moment, looking into each others' eyes, chests heaving.

Then he says, "Don't stop," and she doesn't need to be told twice. She runs her hands all over her bare skin as he finds a tender spot near her collar bone to kiss. He is hard, toned muscle and sun-kissed flesh. He is sharp lines and the faintest taste of metal. His body is forged of relentless work, yet it melts under her touch. His lips against hers are soldiers charging onto a battlefield, never knowing if today is the day they will perish. She's about to try pulling his shirt off entirely when the sound of her name breaks her concentration. It's not Gendry's voice saying it, but it is a voice she would recognize anywhere. They break apart immediately, and her eyes land on perhaps the last person she wanted to find them like this: Jon.

* * *

Jon hasn't said a word to Gendry since they set off on their mission a few hours ago. In fact, he's barely said a word to him since he found the man wrapped in a heated embrace with his little sister. Or cousin. Either way, he's not sure what to say about what he walked in on this morning, nor does he trust himself to be completely civil if he does decide to open his mouth. So they ride in silence.

He wishes he had had time to talk to his bride about Arya and Gendry before he left. Even though it's been only a few hours, he misses Daenerys fiercely. Jon did not want to leave his wife the day after their wedding, but his duties called him to the Wall. So that's where they are headed, to face the destruction that Gendry informed him of the day before.

It feels strange to Jon that he returned to his home only yesterday, with all that has happened since his homecoming. His mind continues wandering back to the events of the past few hours, even as he fights to remain alert. Unwelcome, the memory of Gendry and Arya together in that corridor rushes back to him.

He hears Gendry clear his throat before saying, "The closest entry point should be coming up to our left." Jon does his best to avoid looking at the the other man. They fall into silence again, but the tension has somehow increased.

"You never told me that you knew Arya," Jon blurts, trying to keep the suspicion out of his tone.

"Never came up," Gendry answers. He pauses, as if unsure of how to continue. "And I honestly thought she was dead."

"How did you meet?"

"She was pretending to be a boy," Gendry answers, something like fondness in his voice. "But I could tell she was a girl. Oh she used to get so mad when I called her m'lady."

"Why was she pretending to be a boy?"

"To escape King's Landing after…" He trails off. "She was going with us to the Wall. To meet you, I think. She always spoke so highly of you. That's part of the reason I decided to tell you the truth about who I am when we met." Jon lets that information sink in.

"But you got separated somehow?"

"Well we spent some time under Tywin Lannister's thumb," Gendry recounts. "Arya got us out of there, though. Then we stumbled across the Brotherhood, and I decided to take up with them."

"I still don't quite understand why you didn't tell me that you knew her," Jon states. Gendry shrugs, looking slightly confused himself.

"It's not as if I purposefully kept it from you," he responds. "It was just painful to think about her, and I figured it would be even more painful to bring her up."

"What happened this morning…" Jon begins to say, clearing his throat mid sentence. "Were you two always-"

"No!" Gendry cuts him off with a strong shake of his head. "No, we were never anything more than friends. I mean, she was barely more than a child when we knew each other." Jon lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"So that was…"

"The first time anything like that has happened between us," Gendry states, his cheeks slightly red, though Jon cannot tell if it has more to do with the cold or this conversation. "I swear it."

"I feel I must ask, what are your intentions with my sister?"

"I care for Arya very much, Your Grace," Gendry responds after a moment of contemplation. "My intentions are to do as she wishes. If she wants to be with me, I will be glad for it. If not, I will respect her wishes and we will speak of it no longer." Jon looks at him a while before nodding. They continue in contented silence.

Just as the sun is beginning to set, a loud screech turns the heads of both men.

* * *

Gendry perceives the attack in flashes. One minute, they are alone in the middle of a snow capped wasteland; the next, they are being descended upon from all sides. The Queen's deceased dragon comes first, its blue fire stark against the ice, its screech grating against his ears. Gendry looks to Jon for guidance, for a signal. But Jon's eyes are on the horizon, on the fast approaching army of the dead.

Suddenly they are afloat in a sea of blue eyes, drowning in the Night King's soldiers with no life boat. They use fire and valyrian swords, use the dragon glass daggers Gendry brought along just in case and the hammer he made just for this occasion. Jon fights valiantly as ever by Gendry's side, and Gendry tries to keep up but he's no warrior and they both know it. Still they trudge on, laying waste to white walkers as they try to retreat. It isn't enough to save them.

The Northern King goes down at some point during the fight, though Gendry cannot say how much time has passed since the initiation of the battle. Jon howls beside him, and he turns to see that the man has been run through with a long sword, skewered like goat's meat. Jon drops to his knees as the light begins to leave his eyes. Blood leaks from his mouth, trickling down his chin like a waterfall.

Gendry's thoughts go quiet, replaced by a faint ringing. This is it. This is how and when and where he dies. Fighting the Night King alongside the King in the North. He'll admit, it's not a bad way to go. Pretty honorable for a king's bastard son. He thinks of all the ways he could have died by now and knows that this is not the worst end he could have hoped for.

But then he thinks of Arya, her face and her wit and the feelings they have only begun to explore. He thinks of the devastation she would face in the wake of both his and her brother's deaths. He thinks of all the years they spent apart believing the other to be dead only to find their way back to each other. And suddenly he cannot bear the thought of not living to see her again. Their story is not over yet. This is not the end.

So, with Jon Snow dying beside him, Gendry raises his hammer and prepares to fight.


End file.
